Juliana

by Vanda

  “Then how come you don’t need to work like the rest of the world?”

  “I’m gonna. Soon. Max knows a lot of play brokers who could get one of their playwrights to write a play for me. He said I’ll be ready for a big gig soon. That’s what they call a job in show biz.”

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t know, would I?”

  “Well, maybe you’d know what my life is like if you went to an audition once in a while.”

  “I will. I’m studying with Mrs. Cramden till I’m really good.”

  “With her, that could take the rest of your life.”

  “Look, Aggie. This Max—you can’t trust your life to him.”

  “There you go being an ol’ wet blanket. Everybody knows that about you. ”

  I sat up and threw my legs over the side of the bed. “Yeah? Well, remember Juliana?”

  “No. Who’s she?”

  “The singer Max took us to hear in the summer.”

  “Oh, yeah. So?”

  “I met her, and she said she hadn’t seen Max in a long time.”

  “So?”

  “So he told us she was his protégé. But she hadn’t even seen him. He lied to us.”

  “She knew him, didn’t she?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “But nothing. So she hadn’t seen him in a while. Once he gets me set up, he won’t see me regular either. Your suspicion is a big nothing. I gotta go.”

  “You said you had a couple hours. I never see you.”

  “You think I wanna stick around for this suspicion?” She dashed out the door, slamming it.

  I threw the magazine on the floor. “Hell!” I’d never said that word before; I wasn’t allowed to. But everyone was yelling at me, so I just said it. Heck there must’ve been some kinda disease running around New York City to make everybody so grumpy. I grabbed my coat from the closet. I had to walk.

  I ran down the steps and out the door, buttoning my coat. The sky was a cold, steel-gray with the sun about to set. I ran down the street past the dilapidated Valencia Hotel and the St. Mark’s Horn and Hardart’s, turning onto Second Avenue, not sure where I was going. I passed the men sitting in doorways wrapped in torn blankets, their eyes glazed into a blank stare. In one doorway, there was a boy whose face was so caked with grime I couldn’t tell if he was white or colored. His toes poked through the ends of his shoes. He must’ve been awfully cold without a coat. I stopped a minute, thinking maybe I should give him mine. Jesus said that if anyone asks for your coat you should give him your cloak too. But I didn’t think Jerusalem was as cold as New York City in winter. I also knew that wasn’t the point Jesus was making. I walked on.

  I tapped my feet to keep warm, waiting for the light to change. A strange memory came back. A long time ago, when I was a little kid, before my mother started going crazy—it hadn’t snowed, but it sure was cold—my mother and I shared the same coat to walk to the grocery store. We didn’t have to. It wasn’t like all we had was one coat. It was before the depression and my dad was working regular. Mom just thought it’d be more fun for us to wear one coat together. And it was. It really was.

  I headed back to Hope House. I called Dickie to see if he’d come with me to the Mexico place. I was certain he’d say no, but he didn’t.

  When we met in front of the club, he told me he had given up on Aggie, and he’d even started taking an advanced tap class and going to auditions .

  “And today …”—he did a drum roll on his thigh—“I landed a part in the dance chorus of Let’s Face It that just opened last week.”

  “You did?” I jumped up and down hugging him. “Dickie! The new Cole Porter. The critics are mad for it.”

  “I’m replacing this guy who’s sick. Poor guy. But I gotta admit, I can’t feel too bad for him. It’s a short-term contract, but Al, I’m gonna be dancing on Broadway! To hell with Aggie,” he proclaimed, and we hugged again.

  We entered the club and moved toward a table down front. The club had south of the border décor, recently very popular. There were cardboard palm trees sprinkled among the tables. The waiters and bartenders wore Mexican sombreros and colorful shirts with pictures of parrots on their backs. The bartender, in the same colorful shirt, was making blue and purple drinks and putting in swizzle sticks with little Mexican sombreros on top. And over by the bar was—Aggie!

  She wore a skimpy, multicolored dress like the men’s shirts. There was a large box around her middle tied on with ribbon that read Pall Mall. She was a cigarette girl! Her eyes met mine, and she dashed into the ladies’ room. Dickie seated, opening his menu, didn’t see her.

  “So, what are you having?” he asked me.

  “Uh, Dickie … nose, powder.” I threw my hat and gloves on the table and ran to the ladies’ room.

  Aggie was pushed up against the wall, across from one of the stalls under a cardboard palm tree, crying. I ran to hug her, but the cigarette box around her middle bounced me back.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve been so worried about you. How long have you had this job?”

  “Look at me. I’m—I’m a cigarette girl.” Big tears wet her face.

  “So?”

  “Max dumped me. Months ago. I’ve been going to auditions, but nobody wants me.”

  “Max is a jerk if he doesn’t see how talented you are. Forget him. Listen, Aggie, I think this becoming a star takes a lot longer than we figured back in the cafeteria at Silas Wood Elementary.”

  “Did Dickie see me?”

  “No, but I think he’d love to. He misses you.”

  “And you and him aren’t—”

  “No, of course not. We came here as friends. Danny’s working on his novel. Again. Still. You’re Dickie’s girl always and forever. And guess what? Dickie got a part in the chorus of Let’s Face It .”

  “Now he’s never gonna want me. He’s gonna be surrounded by chorus girls.”

  “He loves you. He’s not gonna care if you’re a cigarette girl. But you’re gonna have to set things straight with him. You’ve been lying to him. He thinks there’s something going on with you and Max. Uh, you and Max never, uh ….” I could feel my face getting pink.

  “No. I tried, but Max never …. Let’s not talk about that.”

  “So, now you can just go back with Dickie.”

  “I really tried with Max, but he … just pushed me away. It’s a terrible memory. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

  “Good. Go out and say hi to Dickie.”

  “One time, we were rehearsing all day, Max and me, and it was hot in his apartment—I’ve never told this to anyone, but … I took off all my clothes and—”

  “I don’t think I wanna know about this.”

  “Max went into the kitchen to fix us drinks, and when he came back there I was. Naked on his couch.”

  “Nothing on?”

  “Well, a scarf from Bloomies around my neck. I looked so feminine. But Max … he didn’t say anything. He put the drinks down, picked up my clothes, and … threw them at me. He told me to get out, and that show business was a business, and I was mistaken if I thought I was going to turn it into anything else. He gave me ten minutes to get out, and he stormed out of his own apartment. I was so ashamed. He hasn’t answered any of my calls since then. I destroyed my career.” She was crying again.

  I tried to put my arms around her again, but ….

  “Aggie, take this dang thing off.” She took off the cigarette tray, and I hugged her.

  “Do you think Dickie’ll take me back after all I’ve done to him?”

  “Yeah. But ya gotta apologize.”

  She started crying again. “I can’t let him see me like this.”

  I looked at her, blond hair, sparkling in her blue and green top with sequins glittering off her breasts, the tiny skirt rippling over her mid-thighs, the black high-heeled shoes ….

  “Aggie, you are gonna knock Dickie’s socks off.”

  “You think so?”

  “All except for the two black stre
aks running down your face.”

  “Oh, no!” She ran to the mirror. “I look like a raccoon.” She scrubbed her face with soap and water.

  I stood by the door. “I’ll see you outside.”

  “Maybe, since Dickie’s got a job on Broadway, he can get me one too.”

  “Aggie!”

  “Well, it doesn’t hurt to be practical.”

  I opened the door to leave.

  “Al. Uh, thank you, and that dress I had on tonight. It wasn’t from Saks; it was from …” she whispered, “Wanamaker’s sale rack.”

  I knew just how hard it was for her to tell me that, so I gave her a thumbs-up .

  When I made my way back to the table a comic had the audience laughing. Dickie, too. “This guy is funny.”

  “Uh, Dickie,” I began as I sat down. “I was in the ladies’ room just now

  and—”

  “Uh, huh.” He was still preoccupied with the comic.

  “I was in there talking to Aggie.”

  “What?” He turned to me and then looked up. “Aggie.” She stood near the table with her Pall Mall box around her waist.

  “I’m sorry, Dickie. I know I’ve been horrible.”

  “You sure have been.”

  Aggie started to walk away. He stood up and grabbed her wrist.

  “Give me a pack of Luckys, dollface?” He pulled out a bill. “Are you through with that Max?”

  “Oh, Dickie, there was never anything between Max and me.”

  “In that case, what time you get off, gorgeous?”

  “Two.”

  “What about our curfew?” I asked.

  “I have permission ’cause I’m working. Mrs. Minton and my mother talked. I have to be back at the house no later than two-thirty.”

  “I’ll walk Al home and then come back for you,” Dickie said. “You and I got a lot to talk about before things are settled ’cause I don’t want this happening again.”

  “Hey, honey,” a fat gentleman in a tuxedo said. “Give me a box of them Marlboros, will ya?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll see you two later. I gotta work.”

  I don’t know what happened after that. Juliana came on stage singing. A guy in a white tuxedo and tails played the piano. Another guy played the trombone. Juliana sang into a microphone and danced in heels to “It Ain’t Right.”

  I sunk down into my chair to watch. She wore a sleeveless, black and white, silk dress. The seams of her nylons were perfectly straight. When she finished the audience clapped. I wanted to stand and cheer, but since no one was doing that I figured I’d better not.

  Her next number was “You Do Something to Me. ” Holding the mic, she stepped from the stage into the audience. As she sang, she faced in my direction like she was singing to me. I couldn’t look away. My face got hot and my lungs hurt. I think the audience applauded, but I couldn’t hear them. My head was too filled with her.

  “Well, that was nice,” Dickie leaned over to say to me.

  “Nice? That’s all you’ve got to say about her? Where are your ears? Where are your eyes? Where is your heart?”

  “Pipe down. My mind’s on Aggie, okay?”

  I wished I could stand in her line again and wait all night for her if I had to, but I knew she didn’t want to see me. A dull ache replaced the pleasant feeling. I finished my last bit of grilled flounder and wiped my mouth .

  “Ready?” Dickie asked.

  A waiter came over. “Miss Alice Huffman?” he asked in a phony Spanish accent that sometimes sounded French.

  “Yeah?”

  He laid a small bouquet of violets on the table in front of me. “From Miss Juliana. She requests that you join her for tea.”

  “Well, aren’t you special,” Dickie said.

  “Should I go?” I asked him, knowing whatever he said I had no intention of not going.

  “Yeah, you should. Maybe she can help you with your career.”

  I looked at my watch. It was eleven thirty. I had plenty of time to drink tea before my one o’clock curfew. “Uh, Dickie, I’m gonna go. Don’t worry. I can get myself home.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be fine. It’s not a long walk from here.”

  “Take a cab. Here’s a couple of bucks.”

  “I have money.”

  “Take mine. I’ll feel like less of a cad for not walking you home.”

  I stuffed his bills into my coat pocket, plopped my yellow hat on my head, picked up my violets and walked over to the of line people that was starting to gather at a door a few feet from the stage.

  I was prepared to wait a long time, but when Juliana opened the door she smiled at me. She wore an orange and pink bathrobe that billowed as she moved. “Well, hello there. Come in.” She turned to the line of people. “Sorry no autographs tonight.”

  “Have a seat while I change,” she directed.

  I took off my gloves and sat in a straight-backed chair by the wall. The dressing room seemed darker and dingier than the last one, with no windows and cracks in the walls. She should have something bigger, brighter.

  “So did you like the show tonight?” she asked from behind the screen.

  “Like it? It was so …. You were so …. I have no words to—to ….”

  “You should be a critic. Did you read the guy in the World Telegram ?”

  “He was nuts.”

  “I need more fans like you.”

  “The whole audience loved you.”

  “Maybe. But nothing much is happening. I should be playing bigger clubs by now.”

  “And you will. Soon, I bet.”

  “I wish I had your faith.” She stepped out from behind the screen in a blue shirtwaist dress.

  “Thanks for the flowers,” I said.

  “Violets seemed to suit you. Shall we go?” She slipped into what I thought was probably a mink coat and grabbed her handbag. She bent down to look in the mirror and fitted her blue turban to her head .

  “Go?”

  “The tea. It’s in my apartment. This is not the proper place to serve tea. Do you mind?”

  “No, of course not.” I was thinking about that dang curfew.

  The night air was cold and clear. Walking beside her under the now-barren trees, I felt an excited anticipation.

  “A lovely night,” she said.

  “Yeah, it is.” I could smell her perfume, a hint of some flower, dancing light in the air.

  “I love autumn,” she said. “The color of the leaves.” She kicked up a few dried ones that lay on the sidewalk with her small high-heeled foot.

  “When I was little,” I said, “my grandma, the one on my mother’s side, not my nana who I told you about last time, used to let me and my friend Aggie rake up the leaves in her backyard and then when we got done we jumped in them.” Why was I telling her this stupid story?

  “Did you?” she said. “I never did anything like that. Too many lessons.”

  “Lessons?”

  “Oh, you know, singing, dancing, piano. Tell me about jumping in the leaves.”

  “You can’t really want to know about that? A woman like you?”

  She laughed. “‘A woman like me’ would very much like to hear about jumping in the leaves.”

  “Well, there’s not much to tell. We jumped up and down in them and threw them at each other. Sometimes we stuffed them down each other’s shirts. Once, Aggie stuffed a bunch down my pants and ….” I don’t believe I just told her that .

  “Did she?”

  “Well, we were only seven.”

  “What happened?”

  “A bug was in there and I had to take my pants off and—” I stopped, horrified at what I had just said. “Well, I was only seven,” I said quickly.

  She laughed, but I wasn’t sure if she was laughing at my story or at my embarrassment.

  “It sounds like you had a lot of fun,” she said.

  “Yeah, well, I guess. It was just my life.”

  “Well, here we are.”


  She led the way up the steep cement steps of a brownstone, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. We were in a dark hallway with a dim light overhead. When she turned on the light, I saw a set of steps leading to another floor. “We’ll go upstairs. It’s cozier up there.”

  “What are the rooms down here?” I asked.

  She stopped on the bottom step. “These old row houses are all alike. That room over there,”—she waved her hand, and I could make out a faint shadow of a sofa and some overstuffed chairs— “is the main parlor. And those stairs on the other side of this staircase lead down into the kitchen and a small garden.”

  She led the way up the steps. “Down that hallway is the master bedroom and a guest bedroom beyond that and across the hall there is a bathroom. The staircase ahead leads to the servants’ rooms.”

  “You have servants?”

  She turned and smiled, leaning against the banister. “Sometimes. When I give a big party. But I generally only hire a couple of girls who come a few times a week to help keep the place clean. And sometimes I hire a driver when I need to use the car.”

  “Wow,” I exploded. “You must be awfully rich. Oh! I’m sorry. You’re not sposed to say that.” Sweat gathered around my waist.

  “Well, a fact is a fact, isn’t it?”

  “My father used to drive a limousine before I was born. My mother thought he was rich, so she set her cap for him.”

  “What happened?”

  “She found out he didn’t have a pot to—oh, uh, I mean, he didn’t have any money. Mom found out just before she married him, but by then she was in love with him, so she married him anyway.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. Otherwise you wouldn’t be standing here on my staircase telling me that story.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Shall we?” I followed her up the last of the steps replaying in my head all the dumb things I’d said to her, and yelling at myself. We walked into a room a few feet from the stairs on the left, and she flipped on the light.

  It was a long room with a dark paisley rug and a piano—a baby grand, she said. In the corner of the room there was a large RCA Victrola and a pile of phonograph records in cardboard sleeves. Some were bound together into sets.

  “This is the music room,” she said taking off her coat.